A long night
by Fizz the Great
Summary: Some nights are short. Some are long. For Lestrade, this was the longest night he's ever had.
1. Prologue

People say a night could be as short as a blink of an eye, or as long as it feels like a month. For Lestrade, a night usually felt like a blink of an eye. Police work isn't easy and sometimes he gets back at 2 am from work. Sleep was never enough for him. He decides he was wrong after following Sherlock into an abandoned house at night.

Sherlock claims himself to be on a case, or so he always claim that he's on a case, and Lestrade, being the Detective Inspector, followed him. He was a bit concerned about the young man's brash personality to rush into things and an abandoned house did have its dangers. Of course, Lestrade didn't except things to escalate this quickly.

The man they were trying to find was a 47-year old serial killer named Jack Mikkleson. He was chased into the abandoned house just a while ago by him and Sherlock and Lestrade concluded that it wouldn't be too hard to trap and cuff him. Like what Sherlock has stated, Mikkleson is an amateur killer, leaves too many footprints around the crime scene and makes careless mistakes. Taking him down wouldn't be so difficult.

Lestrade was wrong. Because the moment they found Mikkleson hiding in the main bedroom, cowered on the bed, Lestrade noticed something very off.

The soft ticking of a bomb.

"Son of a bitc-" He didn't even have time to finish when the world explodes in the brilliance of colors. What felt like an hour later, Lestrade finds himself lying on the ground feeling like shit and half-crushed by a slab of cement. So much for a night.

 **Hi guys, so far this is only the prelude of the story, so please give me consent whether you want this story to be continued or not! Thanks~**


	2. Waking Up

Waking is the slowest part.

He really can't comprehend what the hell has just happened. Just pain and loud noise. Very loud noise followed by an explosion.

And then there's the smoke. Smoke everywhere, in his lungs and in the air. Lestrade wakes up and starts coughing. The air is thick enough to be opaque, and he can barely see anything except rubble, ash, and more smoke. Feeling much like shit with his throat stuck in living hell, he tries to organize what has just happened.

Lestrade winces. A blow to the head does not bide well to this situation. He looks around. Confused from his limited movements, he realizes that there is a fucking block of cement crushing his legs. The name Sherlock sparks in his mind and without thinking, he calls the name.

"Sh-Sherlock?" His voice comes out as croaky and weak. He coughs again. "Sherlock?"

No answer, just more dust. Lestrade grasps his head. Everything hurts. He tries to move his legs but the large cement block is too heavy. There is more weight exerted on his left than his right, but it doesn't matter; he can't move either of his legs.

"Sherlock?" He waits and hopes for an answer. Dust continues to fall. Fortunately, his upper body seems free from any debris, and Lestrade twists around to see how much leverage he is allowed. He can only move in controlled actions from side to side and reach a distance of two feet or so, before feeling the sensation of his legs being ripped out of its sockets. The air is starting to clear as the last cloud of dust falls to the ground, and inevitably landing on Lestrade's face. Coughing, Lestrade squints to his left. He wishes in vain for water; never mind a proper bed with proper pillows under his head and nothing crushing his legs. He tries to push the cement block off him. Doesn't work. He tries to push himself out. Doesn't work either.

The dust finally clears, and a dark mound of clothes lies in crumpled pile only a few feet away. Lestrade spies a pale hand in front of him followed by a mop of curly dust-filled hair and equally pale face.

"Sherlock?" He is surprised to see Sherlock so close to him. He expected the blast from the bomb to separate them further away, but apparently that didn't happen. The man's head is resting on his arm, the face unidentified from Lestrade's point of view, and the top of his head points directly towards him.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade tests his voice and tries to increase his volume. He holds his breath. Seconds pass like minutes.

And then, "Ls'trad'?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here,"

"W'er,"

Judging by the incoherence of his speech, he must have been hit across the head pretty hard.

Lestrade opens his mouth then closes it. "I-um, Sherlock, I need you to describe your injures to me. How are you feeling?"

It takes him forever to answer. "Cold."

Lestrade lets out a breath his was unknowingly holding. He holds on to the thin strip of hope that the coldness isn't due to blood loss. "Ok, well, anything else?"

Another long pause.

"Head. Hr'ts."

Concussion then. Lestrade fights to stay calm with his legs still pinned.

"Ok, Sherlock, I need you to stay with me okay? Help is going to come soon."

To be honest, Lestrade isn't sure how long it will take for the ambulance to arrive. They are, in fact, 40 minutes away from Central London at the East Coast of an abandoned house. For God's sake why did he even think of following Sherlock here? There is an unlikely chance someone has called the ambulance by now. He can't remember if there are any residents around this place. Even if someone has called the ambulance, it would take around 30 minutes at least, for them to get here with all the London traffic. God knows how long it would take for the medics to find them.

"Les'trade gr'nd."

Panic fills him like a breaking dam. "Sherlock, no, just keep your eyes open for me. 30 minutes okay? 30 minutes, that's all."

Silence follows his words.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing.

"Shit," Lestrade swears. He cranes his neck and looks around. There is rubble piled up so high that they can be obscured if someone just looks straight ahead. It's a miracle there is nothing on top of Sherlock. He drops his head and sighs in defeat. "Sherlock?" He tries again. Still no answer. So he's alone. "Hello!?" Lestrade hates himself for saying this. He clenches his fist and takes a mental note of never mentioning this to any of his police force. "I need help." The first attempt sounded feeble. Lestrade feels his nails bite into his palms and tries again. "Anybody here? I need help, someone please call for help!" He isn't supposed to be saying this, he's a police for fuck's sake. He's supposed to be the one helping others, not getting help. The area is quiet.

"Hello?" An echo bounces back. Lestrade lets out the string of words he's been holding for a while. The wind blows again and he wraps his arms around him. He glances at Sherlock who is still in the exact position he found him, head resting on arm and face turned away from him. So much for a fucking night.

Testing his limits once more, Lestrade reaches for Sherlock's hand. He misses at the first try. Unfazed, he tries again. This time, his fingers managed to graze Sherlock's. Lestrade puts his whole weight on his right side and leans. His fingers grasp onto Sherlock's hand and pulls. For a moment, he doesn't budge. Taking a deep breath, Lestrade gives him another tug. The rocks beneath the younger man shifted so that he slides forward. Lestrade lets go, breathing heavily even from such a simple task. His legs feel numb and the London air sets the whole area into a natural fridge. Leaning forward again, he checks the detective's pulse. It is slow but steady. The tension loosens a bit in his chest.

He reaches and pulls Sherlock closer to him so that he can see his face. Lestrade stiffens at the sight of the young man's pale face. He scans for any injuries.

"Sherlock," he shakes the him. Sherlock's face remains devoid of any emotion. Lestrade sighs in defeat and gives up the attempt to try and wake Sherlock. Now resting in his original position, he realizes his left leg is starting to numb. He freezes for a moment when he registers that they may have to severe the leg if he stays here any longer. His breathing quickens again.

No, no… They're going to get out of here alive.

"Hello!? We're stuck here, can someone please call for medical help!" Lestrade waits for a while then decides to add, "Thank you!"

He rests his head back and tries to get as comfortable as possible. He glances at Sherlock and wishes him a good night. In minutes, darkness claims him to sleep.

 **Exams are over. That's a start.**


End file.
